


walled garden

by Windian



Category: Tales of Berseria
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, F/M, Frottage, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 19:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10997208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windian/pseuds/Windian
Summary: One day, Oscar would be pledged into service with the Abbey. Teresa vowed to go with him. Without Oscar, there was nothing left for her, here. There'd never been anything for her but Oscar.





	walled garden

 

When Teresa had finished with her dailies chores, and Oscar with the work set from his tutor, the two half siblings would meet. A friendship between a maid and second son of the Dragonia family was a little scandalous, but so was Teresa's parentage: the two things effectively somehow managed to cancel one another out. The Mistress might press her lips together at the friendship, and ask Oscar to stop wasting his time gallivanting about with the help-- but Oscar, ever stubborn-- would gently refuse his mother.

 _The Help,_ Oscar's mother called her. Teresa, or rosebud, her mother had called her, before she passed. Miss Linares, the kinder of her colleagues addressed her. _Her_ , the rest said.

Her own father, she had no idea, because the master of the house made a point not to address her as anything. It was as though she might have sprung out of the aether, instead of an awkward and rather embarrassing union.

Only Oscar addressed her as _sister_. Out of his mouth, it seemed less a curse but something nearly reverential. He dared not call her that in front of his mother, but alone he seemed to delight in the word. She still remembered when she'd chanced upon her brother by the river beneath the willow tree. He was four; she was nine, she'd been told it would be inappropriate to address either of the young masters but especially the younger one: Oscar with his shining yellow curls his mother was too fond to cut. She wouldn't have approached him, if the long spring rainfall hadn't turned the riverbank into mud, and if Oscar hadn't slipped in. Help! _Help_! He called.

Teresa had come across the young master, boot planted as firmly as a tree rooted to the ground in the mud, thoroughly stuck.

She'd helped pull the boy out of the mud, the sodden riverbank releasing his foot with a squelchy _pop_ , her long apron lathered with the stuff. She'd vainly attempted to clean it off with the a bit of willow, as Oscar launched into a barrage of questions. What's your name? What's your favourite colour? Do you play here, too? Who are your parents?

Well, Teresa had never been taught it was acceptable to _lie_. So she'd told the boy: my father is the same as yours, young master.

The child had then deduced: so that means you're my sister, then?

Well--- Teresa had begun to object. But it was too late. Eyes bright, utterly taken by the idea, Oscar had rolled the word around in his mouth, testing it on his tongue. Sister. Si-ster. _Sister_.

After that day, the two children were constant companions. They waded in the river in the summer, fishing out bright, glittering stones. In the winter they drew snow angels in the white carpet that blanketed the manor gardens like powdered sugar. They played other games, too: like the kissing game Oscar had seen his cousin Jeannette play with the stableboy, behind the horse-shed. Under the sun-dappled shade of the same willow where they'd met, Oscar would climb upon her lap and pepper her whole face with kisses. Sometimes, he'd blow a raspberry, she'd retaliate with a barrage of tickling, and the two of them would fall back on the grass, laughing and laughing.

As the years past, Oscar's sunny disposition would sometimes cloud over. He was the second son: heir to nothing. He was an afterthought, in the same way that Teresa was no thought at all. When he was of age, he'd be dedicated into the Abbey's service, an old and decrepit organisation that, Teresa thought, didn't deserve her brother.

I'll go with you, she told him. Another wet spring day, the two of them sat on Oscar's bed, the rain running in rivulets down the glass.

Are you sure, sister? He'd asked her.

She nodded. Without Oscar, there was nothing left for her, here. There'd never been anything for her here but Oscar.

Besides, she joked, what on earth would you do without me?

A playful push turned fingers digging under Oscar's arms, mercilessly tickling. Just like when they were younger, Oscar pushed her back, triumphantly sitting astride her, grinning ear to ear, and-- somehow, it wasn't like before.

Oscar straddled Teresa's hips, and something twanged down her body like the strike of a tuning fork. Suddenly, her throat was dry, her heartbeat in her ears. Lips parted to ask, without really knowing what she was asking for, _Oscar_...

Maybe he felt it, too. Just like when they were children, he leaned down to plant a kiss on her lips. But it was nothing like when they were children: the chaste kiss took root inside of her, tingles bloomed inside her head. She pulled him in deeper, lips parting, Oscar's fingers drew furrows in her hair, planted a shiver that rocked through her quivering body as Oscar's tongue experimentally swiped against her lower lip.

 _Sister_ , Oscar said, as he rocked against her. Even through her apron and petticoats she could feel his growing hardness. Her uneven sex education, patched together clumsily through kitchen gossip and the bullfrogs mating by the pond, led her to a dizzying conclusion. Her brother wanted her, just as she wanted him, the growing heated ache between her legs throbbing as Oscar sucked at her lower lip, his breath hot and hitched.

The thought hit her: we shouldn't be doing this. They were siblings by blood, even if not by name.

But that thought made her sweaty fingers tighten harder around the back of Oscar's shirt. No-one in this entire manor wanted them to be friends; no-one wanted them to be siblings. She thought of the Mistress's pursed lips when Oscar spoke her name; she thought of her father's averted glances. They would rather have swept her under the carpet, as neatly and tidily as a pan full of dust. But here she was: petticoats rumpled and hitched as her brother rutted against her, eyes bright with adoration, breath ragged as he called out sister, sister, _sister_.

 _Brother_ , she gasped, trembling against him as his rocking grew more erratic and he shivered to a halt. She watched the expression on his face, long eyelashes fluttering, a long breathy gasp leaving him as something tremendous ripped through him. Teresa wanted to see that expression again.

A few moments later, he coloured. Tried to excuse himself, and Teresa-- with a vague growing impression of what must have happened-- pulled him him against her bosom, fingers teasing his sweaty hair back from his face.

I'm sorry, he said, in a small voice.

Don't be, she said.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Something warm and bright lodged inside Teresa's chest.

Sister... we've made a mistake, haven't we?

No, she said, and again, more firmly: _no_. We've done nothing wrong.

She planted a kiss, there, on the crown of her brother's head. Together they listened to the sound of the rain, softening the earth, bringing all the quiet life that lived beneath the soil to the surface.

 


End file.
